


Easier by Moonlight

by Eva



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-07
Updated: 2011-08-21
Packaged: 2017-10-22 08:47:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/236253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eva/pseuds/Eva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meme wants werewolves.  So, Mycroft Holmes is a werewolf, and he has a new friend.  Complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

*********

Mycroft never really trusted his memory of events during the full moon. As the brain changed its shape, so did it change its function; his memories as a wolf must be filtered through his human understanding, and vice versa. Therefore, his memories were interpretations, and not strictly true.

But there was no doubt that this interpretation was accurate: there had been another wolf.

He pulled his dressing gown, left on a chair in the garden, on over his bare skin; years had passed since the nights of locking himself in. The bites and scratches from the fight had healed, and he was fiercely glad of that as he punched in the code to let himself in the house. It would send an alert to Anthea, his current PA and minder, although she got unbelievably testy when he used the latter term. Mycroft had a suspicion she thought it impolite.

Lycanthropy wasn’t terribly common; however, it was not unheard of, and Mycroft had had no compunctions about revealing his condition when he was in a position to ensure his own safety. He was, after all, the only individual in all the world who could fill the position he’d created within the British government, and if he happened to spend a few nights as a wolf, well. The Powers that Be were willing to let it slide, now that he was pulling their strings.

Another wolf. Mycroft could vaguely remember pale fur, paler than his own, which meant little, considering his own fur was black. Slightly smaller stature, but then, he was aware that he was a bit on the large side, for a wolf. He struggled to piece his scent-related observations together: male, very male, almost aggressively so--an impression born out when they fought. Older than him, but less creative; Mycroft’s weight and ability to weave human tricks into his attack had allowed him to knock the other wolf down repeatedly, but he’d gotten up again and again. Determined. Dogged, Mycroft thought, and smiled.

He shivered in the cool, still sitting room. He’d had the other wolf on his back, holding him down, snarling, those lovely gnashing teeth; he’d braced his feet and bit, and bit, drawing blood only the once, and the other wolf had heaved himself upright, eyes rolling with anger. Long tail straight out, hackles high. He’d done the same, moving closer with steady, slow deliberation--

Mycroft blinked down at himself, mildly surprised to find that he was aroused.

*********

The second night of the full moon, Mycroft was on a mission. That was how he remembered it. Urgency, flowing through his body, the streets unwinding beneath his paws, every scent, every scratch, every last mark of the other wolf screaming out to him, declaring the city his own, pounding like a drum, mine mine mine--

He heard him around the corner and leapt wide, heart pounding with vicious joy for the attempted trap. He was smart after all; Mycroft whirled around to see his claws flashing out and there was bright, terrible pain as he slashed at Mycroft’s nose. Mycroft got him down, held him down again, but he couldn’t get a good grip, couldn’t hold with his teeth, because he couldn’t breathe; oh, clever, clever.

He’d whined, startling the wolf beneath him; the wolf kicked out and tried to stand up, but Mycroft lay on him heavily and whined again, licking at his own sore nose. When the wolf managed to work his body around enough to face Mycroft, Mycroft mouthed his muzzle, baring his teeth and clamping down briefly when the wolf tried to wriggle out from under him again.

He remembered the tension leaking out of his own body, and the other wolf following his lead, emitting a short, sharp whine before staring at him. Mycroft stood carefully, taking care not to stand over the other, and licked again at his wound. He didn’t know a word for the feeling he’d had when the other wolf licked his nose; he’d liked it, but “like” wasn’t strong enough.

They settled there, in the dark, cool alley. It was the other wolf’s place; he’d marked it for years. It wasn’t his den, but it was his place. Mycroft respected that, if only for the length of time he’d put into it.

He’d never known he was lonely. Pushing his nose insistently into the side of his--what? friend?--Mycroft had a sense of... well. Again, words were difficult. Peace, perhaps. That the moment, that the actions they were taking, were good. He hadn’t felt such warmth and ease since he was young, curled up around a young Sherlock, grimacing every time his brother had pulled on his ears. But even that hadn’t been as right, as pure, because Sherlock was human, and not a wolf.

And oh, how he knew it. Sherlock had loved him, loved his secret, until he was fourteen and impossibly egocentric and angry, no longer willing to accept that his brother was a genetic throwback and that he was normal. For the given value of normal.

Their mother, consoling Sherlock, had said, “But you are perfect, darling. You’re human. Like your father, and like me.”

How very alone he had been.

Mycroft sat out in the garden until the sun rose.

*********

The third night, there had been a new trail.

Mycroft had trusted himself to roam London for less than a year. Previously, he’d spent the full moon at the family estate, but had become increasingly unsatisfied. It was his, his home and his territory, but he no longer wanted it. That was the human part of him, of course. He wanted London. He’d had no idea that another wolf had already claimed a good deal of it.

He followed the trail along the river, down dark streets and up over rooftops, wanting to bite and scratch and rip at marks that were so new, so close, he was so close, barely keeping ahead of Mycroft now, his clever friend. There were no more markings, only his scent in the clear air, hanging bright and thick, leading him on. Pavement cool and unforgiving under his paws. He leapt over a dustbin and paused, listening to the sounds of people, humans on the busy street, filtering into the alley.

He was out there, Mycroft realised, and whined, low and unhappy. He didn’t like this.

Edging closer to the street, he could smell him, ridiculously close. Claws loud on metal and there he was, head tilted in a strangely human way, looking at the alley with his long tongue hanging out. Sitting next to a homeless man with a sign; oh, clever wolf, pretending to be a dog. Mycroft whined again and barked, high and sharp. It was a disguise he was simply too large to attempt.

A woman stopped, scratched at the wolf’s ears; Mycroft’s hackles rose and he growled, pawing at the ground helplessly. When the wolf licked her hand companionably, Mycroft whined and made a short lunge, stopping short of leaving the alley.

At last, the wolf shook himself and trotted back across the street, panting amiably at the humans that passed. Mycroft waited until he was close before backing further into the safety of the alley, whining again when it seemed the other wolf was hesitating to follow. When he judged them quite safe from human interference, he shouldered the wolf roughly and licked at his face, nuzzled him, pushed him into the wall and down onto the ground to rub himself all over him, to know that he was there, and safe.

The other wolf took it stoically at first, then pushed him with his nose and tried to wriggle away. Mycroft barked and pushed him down again, and they wrestled, tumbling over each other and nuzzling, until the other wolf did manage to get up and start running, leading Mycroft on another race across the city, sticking to the darker, safer routes again.

Mycroft fully intended to refrain from thinking about it, about him, when he returned again to his house and to human form. That was something for which he could wait; the easy companionship, the sweet chase. It was adrenalin, only adrenalin, that had his heart racing and his breath quick, his skin aching for even the slightest touch.

He would be himself again in the morning.

*********

“Last month’s report, sir,” Anthea said, handing over the paper file. Mycroft detested reading things off screens. He knew he was old-fashioned, and found pleasure in it.

“Out late again,” he observed. Six months now, chasing and playing with his clever grey wolf. “Perhaps we should deem it the new norm.”

“Any particular reason your habits have changed, sir?”

Mycroft considered her, briefly. Anthea was perhaps the closest he had to a friend in his human life; she kept his secrets, showed that she found it repugnant when ordered to release even slightly negative information about Mycroft--no matter what the reason, and was genuinely concerned for his health and well-being. She’d passed every test he’d devised for her.

But.

“I am becoming increasingly comfortable with London,” he said lightly. “Send that along, won’t you? And the car around.”

Sherlock had been involved in yet another unauthorised entry; Mycroft had gotten quite skilled at getting charges dropped. Just a quick chat with the Deputy Commissioner and, if the victim was particularly recalcitrant, another ASBO for his dear brother.

His visit to New Scotland Yard was short and amiable, and he decided, feeling just a bit mischievous, to check on Sherlock, who was sitting in his DI’s office now. Probably baiting the poor man; Mycroft had never had the pleasure of meeting Gregory Lestrade, but he had seen him at a few crime scenes, most notably the one after the murderous cabbie was mysteriously shot. He often looked as Mycroft had felt when young Sherlock was tugging on his ears. The sense memory made Mycroft twitch his head slightly, as if knocking small hands away.

The human sense of smell, of course, was nothing compared to a wolf’s, and Mycroft could be forgiven for not noticing anything until the door to the office had opened, and Sherlock had swept away, stiff as a board and pulling John along behind him. Mycroft, caught just in the moment of calling out to his brother, was frozen.

“You all right? Sir?” Lestrade said, and touched Mycroft’s arm, just above where the handle of his umbrella hung round his wrist.

That close, both of their nostrils flared, and when Mycroft managed to open his eyes--when had they shut?--Lestrade was staring at him, dark eyes wide with shock, mouth open just enough that Mycroft could see the gleam of light on his teeth.

His first instinct was to lean forward and lick those teeth, press lips to lips and to hell with anything else--and, his first instinct having guided him safely through his political career for so long, Mycroft did in fact begin to move, so slightly that no one in the world could have seen it, but Lestrade felt it. Felt it, and spooked.

“Cheers,” he said in a slightly strangled tone and disappeared into his office before Mycroft could so much as blink. The door slammed shut behind him, and then his body fell against it heavily. Unaware of anything else, Mycroft put his hand out to touch the door, imagined the body heat seeping through.

Then sense caught up with senses, and he left the Yard quickly.

*********

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

*********

The shock of their meeting rocked him to the core. Mycroft had his meetings rescheduled and left the office early that afternoon.

He was not active, as a human. Nevertheless, Mycroft found himself pacing the rooms of his small house, slow at first, and then faster, his heart pounding as thoughts tried to break through his enforced calm. Detective Inspector Lestrade of the Metropolitan Police Service, a werewolf. Another werewolf. His wolf.

There couldn’t be anyone else who knew. Sherlock would have lorded it over him the moment he’d known; Lestrade must have learned very early on how to hide the signs, and how to hide them well. Could there be someone who helped him, who answered his texts or kept watch on his home, while he was lost to the moon? Mycroft thought of Anthea, of his other minders before her, with a pang of regret. If Lestrade had done it alone, then he might never forgive himself.

Mycroft shook his head and tried to banish his musings, but the memories tore at him: the wolf’s sleek leap from rooftop to railing, Lestrade’s tongue wetting his lips before he retreated. Before he ran away; Mycroft’s fists clenched at that, because when the wolf ran away, God damn it, Mycroft had chased. He was supposed to chase. But he couldn’t chase a human being.

He stalked out into the garden, swinging his umbrella viciously at a tuft of grass; unlike the carefully maintained house, the garden was wild, overgrown, and completely comfortable in the mind of a moody animal.

No one would allow a wolf to serve as an officer. Certainly not when Lestrade had joined; not after that incident in the moors. There had been talk of registering lycanthropes; Mycroft remembered crushing that nasty bit of work with a sharp smile.

There had been a few public wolves. Violet Hunter, now. Revealed herself at twenty-two, led a very public life, even going out in ribbons during the full moon. Led a long public life, ending in her eighties, not ten years ago.

Mycroft had no desire to be public. He didn’t think Lestrade had, either.

He couldn’t possibly seek him out in the days between the moon. Lestrade didn’t want him to; Mycroft had no delusion that his retreat into his office had been playful. He could respect that. He must respect it. No matter how much he wanted to sift the seconds and minutes and hours of his life, learn his secrets, understand how the wolf and the man fit together.

But he could only deny himself so much. Contact, yes; knowledge, no. Impossible. He would have a background check conducted, citing an edited version of his experience at New Scotland Yard today. A rather thorough check. He could count on it being connected to his concern for Sherlock, rather than to his condition.

*********

The sheer mundanity of the man’s life should have been a clue.

Youngest of three, born nearly ten years after his closest sibling, leading a quiet, idyllic, rural life... oh, it all fit the image of a child deeply loved and spoiled by his parents, who couldn’t bear to let their last one go. But what Mycroft saw was parents terrified of their son’s condition, keeping him hidden and safe, pushing his siblings away into lives of their own as quickly as they could; terrified of their son’s condition, yes, but also of their son. Why else would Gregory Ian Lestrade have left home so early, making his way to London alone?

Sixteen then, forty-six now; thirty years to make London his own. Mycroft remembered the weight of years in the grey wolf’s hideout. He knew well the sting of loneliness, but it was still a wonder to him that Gregory had accepted him after so long, a wonder that he had shared his territory so eagerly.

Of course Gregory had become a police constable. Dangerous, requiring more than a single soul could give, but at least this offered him responsibility, which to men like Gregory Lestrade was infinitely more important than respectability. He was responsible for his city, for his chosen home, and that was reflected in his life as a wolf, as well.

Reports were made regularly. Mycroft would have known if another wolf existed in London, if there had been any trace. Gregory hid himself, blended into his city so very well, took care of it in either form and in all the ways he could. Mycroft thought of his grey wolf, sitting among humans, and knew that it had taken years for him to become so very comfortable.

And what gain was there in that? Simply, to be trusted. To be accepted, as man or wolf.

It made Mycroft terribly, irrationally angry.

Gregory Lestrade’s isolation screamed from every page of the report. Fleeting, desperate romances; attempts at familial reconciliation all rebuffed; every advancement in his career halted by his reluctance to give up on responsibilities he’d taken on, his inability to delegate when things mattered, and they always mattered to him.

Mycroft put the report down, gently, on the low table in the sitting room. It was only a week until the full moon; he could feel the pull of it rising--waxing--in his bones, along with the gnawing irritation at having to wait.

He deliberately turned his attention to his work.

*********

He was almost too sick with impatience--dare he say longing?--to eat correctly before the next moon, and Anthea was quietly furious.

“You haven’t had a proper intake of protein and calories, sir,” she said in her dullest voice.

Mycroft held himself back from the first ten or so responses he had to that; this close to moonrise, many of them were more wolf than human. “One night won’t do any significant damage.”

She nodded mechanically. “Perhaps you should stay in?”

Mycroft turned his instinctual teeth-baring into a grimace of a smile. “That won’t be necessary. A run will do me some good.”

She vacated the house twenty minutes before the moon rose; Mycroft hadn’t the control to request politely that she leave earlier. He could taste her concern by that time, feel it itching on his skin.

Fur was a relief; the single leap it took to clear the garden wall a joy. The sky rolled away above him, clouds flitting over the face of the moon; his shadow raced out in front of him before he bounded into the first of a series of connected alleyways, paths deeper into the city, to where he would meet the grey wolf.

No trail; memory of the alley, arriving there to a nearly month-old cloud of himself, of his wolf; there was nothing new. Mycroft felt the first clench of fear. His wolf’s typical entrance was south, and Mycroft followed what he could, a direct sort of path, until it crossed over the river.

He could find no trace, no trace at all, of how he’d crossed it. Not a bridge, a boat? Mycroft struggled to think, to sort out the possibilities. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t have swum it. Over the bridge, on the other side, Mycroft found nothing.

Clever, yes; but now he was too clever, and anxiety was crowding out Mycroft’s human perception. He whined, low and constant, pacing up and down along the bank. Where, where, where--

Dog, barking. Close. Mycroft whirled around, teeth bared and a growl rumbling through his throat. Not fighting--no, not safe, dogs and humans, run. Run, lose the trail--there was no trail, nothing to lose--

The dog yanked his owner closer, the human trying to pull him back, talking, scolding loudly. Mycroft let out one desperate, high yip of a bark and ran, keeping close to the river, darting back out with sudden recognition of an alley he had followed the wolf through, claws skittering on broken glass.

Old. Barely able to smell him. Mycroft took in deep lungfuls of air, nosing desperately at trace scents. Where? The trail was never hard to find; where was he?

He barely made it back to his garden before the sun rose, shaking from exhaustion and desperation. For the first time in years, the change back hurt, made him dig his claws into the dirt, his fingers tearing out tough plants by the root.

*********

He canceled his meetings the next day. He didn’t know what excuse Anthea had made; he didn’t care. If he left the house, he would surely march straight to New Scotland Yard and throttle Gregory Lestrade.

Because Gregory was at his office. Mycroft had made sure of that, first thing. Not only was he in his office, but he was also in the bloom of health, showing no signs of stress at all.

Well, no, that wasn’t entirely true. He was chewing on his pens quite a bit. Mycroft had a CCTV camera aimed at his office window and could just make out a grainy image of Gregory’s hands. His face wasn’t visible.

The moon still had a hold on Mycroft, and his control over his mental faculties was being strained by his unusually strong emotional reaction. He tightened his right hand into a fist, pressed hard against his ring with the left. The sharp shock of silver, sparking awareness into his human side, did little to alleviate his turmoil.

More food was brought to the house and he ate without thinking, forcing himself to work steadily through the portions Anthea set out, ignoring her hurt silence. His mind whirled with the effort of separating his feelings, labeling them, addressing them. Compartmentalising them.

How dare he? Mycroft ripped a hunk of chicken from the bone with his teeth; Anthea was in the other room, wincing. How dare he not be there? How dare he smile, just this morning, at some woman in his office; how dare he act normal? How dare he act human, when the wolf was almost bursting out of Mycroft’s skin?

He almost couldn’t get Anthea out the door that night. He was himself; he could clearly read her rising level of concern, but he had no time for her. He would find his grey wolf tonight, or there would be trouble. He would go down to the Yard. He would raise hell.

There was no joy in the run, only urgency. Mycroft ran immediately to the alley hideout and on, no trail, no scent; he crossed the river and found nothing at its banks; he went deeper into the city, into areas he hadn’t known as human or wolf, nothing, nothing, no gray wolf, nothing.

With limbs heavy as lead, he limped back to the alley, to the old but deeply comfortable scents of his wolf. Dragging himself to the wall, where he had pushed his wolf down and lay heavily on him, Mycroft collapsed, nosing the ground fitfully, and whimpered.

Later, human again, he would cringe at the memory, but feel no less lonely or betrayed.

*********

tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A part of me says, "You have to explain away the rings! They both wear rings; every time you write fic you have to address the rings!"
> 
> Another part says, "THEY ARE FUCKING WEREWOLVES. NO ONE CARES."
> 
> Nevertheless, I find myself explaining away rings.


	3. Chapter 3

*********

The third night, Mycroft had had enough. When Gregory returned to his flat that evening, after his shift had ended, Mycroft was there and waiting.

He’d sat there for half an hour, breathing deeply; Gregory’s scent overwhelmed the small flat, surrounded him, scents of human and wolf twined together in a veritable symphony. This was his wolf’s den, and it was almost too much to resist, running his hands over the worn sofa and finding where claws had caught, spotting little modifications to windows, sinks, and lights that would allow a very clever wolf to operate what he would.

He’d been here, Mycroft had known as soon as he’d looked inside. He’d been here the past two nights, hiding. The simple pleasure of having found him, the more complicated one of moving through his den and knowing him as intimately as anyone ever would, nevertheless could not drown out the anger still throbbing at Mycroft’s temples, at his pulse points.

The door opened as Mycroft was examining a long bit of fur left on the sofa, and he looked up, affecting unconcern, as Gregory’s eyes widened and he stepped into the flat, opening his mouth to shout.

“Good evening,” Mycroft said politely.

“What the hell are you doing in my flat?” Gregory demanded, dropping a briefcase and slamming the door shut.

“What the hell were you doing in your flat?” Mycroft countered, getting to his feet. “I looked for you--”

“You have no right to be in here,” Gregory interrupted fiercely, wavering between walking up to Mycroft, possibly forcing him out the door, and keeping a safe, wary distance. “Get out!”

“Why did you stay in?” Mycroft asked, holding onto his umbrella so tight his hands began to hurt. “Why did you just--” He couldn’t continue. The words stuck in his throat.

Sensing his momentary weakness, Gregory covered the space between them in a flash, grabbing Mycroft’s arm with every intention of helping him out the door. His touch, even through layers of clothing, set every nerve in Mycroft’s body ablaze and he twisted, pushed, and fell hard against Gregory, who fell against the wall. He held him there, panting.

“Why did you stay in?” Mycroft asked again, using all of his weight to keep Gregory pinned. And he needed to; Gregory bucked wildly, fought and pushed at Mycroft with both hands until Mycroft caught and pinned those, too. “Don’t--Gregory--”

“Fucking get off me!” Gregory roared, and the hysteria in his voice cut through the fog of anger in Mycroft’s brain. Mycroft jumped back, both hands up, and nearly tripped over his dropped umbrella.

Gregory stomped past him, to the kitchen, and yanked the door to the refrigerator open. He grabbed a beer and slammed it down on the table before seating himself, glaring hard at Mycroft the entire time.

Mycroft slowly walked into the kitchen, keeping his eyes on Gregory as well. “Will you answer my question?”

“I suppose I don’t have a choice,” Gregory said with a mirthless, sharp smile. He took a large drink of his beer, adam’s apple bobbing. “I was hoping to avoid a fight. Guess it found me, anyway.”

“A fight?” Mycroft repeated. Gregory was angry about more than his den being invaded, he realised, and tensed.

“Human lives stay out of it,” Gregory hissed, leaning over the table. “You don’t come to my flat, you don’t come to my work, you don’t chat with my boss--”

“I was talking to the Deputy Commissioner about Sherlock!” Mycroft interrupted.

“I’m not talking about that! I’m talking about interviewing my DCI!” Gregory half-shouted, before looking at the wall irritably and lowering his voice. “And checking out my team as well; thanks for that!”

Mycroft knew his mouth was hanging open, but he couldn’t seem to keep it shut. “I didn’t. I never did.”

“No, you let that woman do it; the one I’ve seen with you,” Gregory said, overriding Mycroft’s instinctive protest. “She was outside the Yard that day, and at the scene with the cabbie.”

Anthea. Mycroft straightened, staring blankly at Gregory. “Anthea interviewed your team?”

“Spent a week supervising a little inquiry; no one would tell me anything,” Gregory said, and took another drink. His anger was lessening. “You didn’t know.”

“She shouldn’t have done that,” Mycroft said, feeling as if he’d been dumped in cold water.

“And now, here you are, in my flat without invitation,” Gregory finished. His gaze darted away to the window; Mycroft stared dully at the lines in his face, the shadows under his eyes. “And moonrise is well under way.”

That explained the uncharacteristic difficulty he was having in ordering his thoughts. Mycroft shook his head, rubbed his thumb against his ring. Gregory watched him and sighed.

“Not used to pushing through it, are you?” he asked, standing up and stretching. Mycroft shook his head again; he didn’t understand the question. “Ever try to resist changing?”

“For what purpose?”

Gregory gave a short laugh. “That’s answer enough.” He pulled off his ring, his jacket, and began working on the buttons of his shirt.

“What--” Words were becoming more difficult. Mycroft would usually be quite alone by now, standing naked in the garden.

“We’ll have moonlight in a minute. Go on, you can stay for this one,” Gregory said, and pulled his shirt off. Mycroft watched him a moment longer, nostrils flaring as his movements had the air moving, letting the sweet scent of his skin, his perspiration fill the kitchen. Then Mycroft set to work on his own clothing, feeling the ripple of energy in his skin; they would change very soon.

The change itself was brilliant, freeing; seeing it happen to Gregory was more thrilling than Mycroft could have imagined. Almost instantaneous, a soundless explosion of light and heat, and there was his wolf, wonderfully sleek and strong and familiar. Mycroft jumped on him, whining and barking happily, nosing him and licking his face, his ruff, his ears.

The grey wolf lay still underneath him, panting amiably, twitching his paws a bit when Mycroft bit at his ruff and worried it a little. But otherwise he let Mycroft do what he would, watching him carefully, and returned a few licks and gentle nips of his own.

Satisfied that his wolf was here, really here, safe and healthy and warm under him, Mycroft could finally relax, letting his attention turn again to the den, allowing his nose priority, although he kept one ear cocked towards his wolf at all times.

Not so many years here, he knew quickly, as there had been in the alley; nevertheless it was warm, safe, and entirely lived in. The floor wore scuff marks from shoes and claws; fur had nestled into every crevice, though he sensed that some time and care had been taken to remove it. Nothing could remove the scent of it, though, and Mycroft stood, still with one ear cocked, and followed the trail of heavy, sweet musk to its greatest concentration: the bedroom, and the bed.

His wolf shouldered him aside with an easy friendliness and hopped up onto the bed, curled up on the blanket and left one eye open to watch him. It was not necessarily an invitation, but Mycroft took it as one, jumping up on the bed and nearly bouncing his poor wolf off. The grey wolf snapped at him irritably; Mycroft lay on him heavily and licked his ear.

Mycroft had never gone into a human home while a wolf before. He’d certainly never climbed on furniture.

He would definitely be doing so from now on.

He would classify the utter ridiculousness of his actions later as a response of both relief and joy, to have his wolf back again. He rolled on the bed, pawing at the grey wolf and working to get his fur and scent into the sheets. His wolf struck suddenly, knocking him right out of the bed, and Mycroft jumped back up with a sharp bark and a vengeance.

They chased each other, nipping and pawing playfully, around the den, scattering bits of paper and knocking over a chair, whining in low, excited tones. Mycroft knocked his wolf over and started licking his face thoroughly; the grey wolf put up with it for only a moment, before wriggling away and jumping nimbly onto the table.

It creaked under his weight, and Mycroft didn’t even try to leap onto it as well. He stalked around the kitchen, under the grey wolf’s watchful eye, and worked the clever little pulley that had been set up to open the refrigerator. There was a small water carrier with a well-chewed tab and an empty dish left uncovered below; he turned the tab and looked to his wolf for approval as the water poured.

Clever enough to think up a multitude of little tricks. Mycroft drank a bit and then watched as his wolf approached, nonchalant, to sniff at the tab and then drink. Were he human, he would have classified the warmth that swept through him then as affection; as a wolf, he simply recognised that the other wolf was now necessary to his own well-being, if he hadn’t been before.

The grey wolf then introduced him to the joys of sitting on a sofa, which was even better than the bed, because of its high back. Mycroft tried to roll on it and ended up sending cushions all over the floor; his wolf lay down on them and Mycroft rolled off the couch to land on top of him in a squirming heap.

Hours after their change, far too short a time, his wolf stretched beneath him and nosed him insistently, until Mycroft lazily rolled aside, watching with hidden alertness. The change back was just as beautiful, just as astonishing and invigorating, and Mycroft was on his feet and panting as his wolf turned human, pale and nearly hairless in the dim light, but still lovely and warm and smelling of home.

His eyes were darker and wetter as a human. Mycroft allowed him to put a shaky hand on his shoulder, support himself on Mycroft’s strong frame. His wolf’s clever fingers scratched around his ears and Mycroft closed his eyes in pleasure.

“Moonset’s in a few,” he whispered, and Mycroft heard the words, tried to make sense of them. “Go on, get out of here before that woman shows up, looking for you.”

He went to the window, opening it and beckoning Mycroft closer. “Go on; I’ll return your things. You can’t be seen walking out of here this late, or in the morning, God forbid. In the same suit as yesterday; even worse. Better to disappear, yeah?”

He was supposed to leave. Mycroft flattened his ears.

“No, no, no; don’t let’s make this difficult.” His wolf squatted, holding out his hand, and Mycroft padded forward slowly, struggling to make the required connections.

“Go. You’ll see me again, next moon. I promise.” His wolf stressed the last word, opening his eyes very wide, and Mycroft nosed his shoulder, drew in a deep breath, the good, sweet smell of him filling up his world.

Back in his garden, shrugging on the dressing gown that had been left for him, thinking of everything to which he must now attend before the next moon, and before Anthea could possibly antagonise Gregory again, Mycroft was unable to shake his disappointment in the faulty memory of that scent, his worse memory of what his wolf had looked like, pale, naked, and so very human, in the dim light.

*********

tbc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is a very sheltered wolf. Have you noticed?


	4. Chapter 4

*********

Anthea stepped into the small dining room with a slightly apprehensive air. It was unusual for him to require her so early; they generally met at the office, or, if there was an emergency, in the car. “Sir?”

Mycroft didn’t so much as look up from his tea. “I asked for a simple background check, not for you to give Detective Inspector Lestrade cause to believe he was being investigated by the Home Office.”

Anthea looked thrown. Not that anyone short of Mycroft could tell. “Sir, I... I didn’t realise I was overstepping my bounds. I apologise.”

“Please explain,” Mycroft said pleasantly, before allowing his gaze to meet hers. “Before you offer your resignation.”

She lost some of the colour in her face. “Sir. I performed the background check, as instructed, and I found--” she paused, swallowing hard-- “I found a somewhat incriminating pattern to the Inspector’s activities.”

“Do go on,” Mycroft said, and only Anthea, and Sherlock, of course, could have noticed how tense he’d suddenly become.

“The Inspector has a history of migraines, family emergencies, and leave-taking, among other things, around the full moon,” Anthea said slowly and carefully. “I thought--”

She paused again, and Mycroft set down his cup. “Continue.”

“I thought you’d have noticed, but realised that you wouldn’t have had to, if you’d already known.” She was blinking rapidly. “I knew that your own behavioral patterns around the full moon had changed, following your decision to spend that time in London. I suspected that you had met with the Inspector, in--as--”

“As a wolf,” Mycroft finished flatly. “And you wanted to, what, intimidate him?”

Anthea set her jaw. “I thought it best to remind him that territorial disputes could be solved in between moons, to prevent a--an unfortunate circumstance, for either of you.”

Light spilled into Mycroft’s mind. “It never crossed your mind that I could handle it myself?”

Her voice was very nearly a whisper. “You have given orders in such ways before, sir.”

“We are not, and were not, fighting over territory.” Mycroft stood up. His appetite was entirely gone. “You are neither required nor welcome to pry into my affairs in this matter.”

“Sir--”

“London is large enough for the both of us, and I would like you to consider Gregory Lestrade off-limits.”

“Sir, research shows that wolves from different families do not share territory, unless they’re a mated pair--”

Her voice hung in the air.

Heat, slow and uncomfortable, enveloped Mycroft. A blurry image of Gregory, pale and naked, appeared in his mind’s eye, and he tried quickly to banish it. A blush was rising in Anthea’s face; he could see it in his peripheral vision.

“Would you still like my resignation, sir?” she asked finally.

Mycroft had to clear his throat. “That won’t be necessary.”

If she didn’t push the matter any further--implied, but not stated. He didn’t think he could manage the words.

*********

His office door was very nearly ripped off its hinges not three hours later.

“Stay away from Lestrade!” Sherlock snarled, throwing a duffel bag onto Mycroft’s desk with considerable force. Mycroft didn’t have to look to know that his clothes were in it; his umbrella was sticking out at one end.

“I’m sorry?” Mycroft said, feeling the world begin to spin. He didn’t like the sensation much.

“I work with him; he’s off-limits,” Sherlock said, and began to pace the room, pausing only to slam the door shut once again. “What are you doing in London, anyway? You’re supposed to spend your change at home!”

How many shocks could a man be expected to endure? “You knew about Gregory!” Mycroft accused, grabbing the edge of his desk with both hands.

Sherlock slammed his fist into his open palm. “Of course I did! And don’t call him Gregory; don’t you dare.”

“Sherlock--”

“He’s mine, do you understand?” Sherlock demanded, slamming his hands on the desk and leaning over it. “I’ve known for three years! We’ve worked together--I’ve helped him! You can’t have him.”

“You are not making any sense,” Mycroft snapped, trying to follow his brother’s thoughts in his shifting expression. It didn’t help that Sherlock was trying to do the same to him. “What do you mean, have him?”

“I work with him,” Sherlock repeated slowly, as if Mycroft were being obtuse on purpose. “He respects me. He needs me. You have your people; don’t you dare take mine.”

“He doesn’t need you--”

“He does!” Sherlock roared, and slammed his hand down on the desk again. Mycroft didn’t jump, but it was a near thing. “And I won’t have you giving him minders! He doesn’t need that; he gets along quite well, like you never have and never could.”

“I don’t plan to give him anything,” Mycroft said tartly. “And if he doesn’t need a minder, as you say, then why does he need you, brother mine?”

“We work together,” Sherlock said, his voice low again, and he stood up to glare down at Mycroft. “He can trust me. We’re neither of us something to be coddled or cared for.”

There was genuine, honest hurt in that last statement, like a deep, purpled bruise. Mycroft opened his mouth and realised, even as he did, that he had nothing to say, so he blurted out the first thing he could bring to mind. “You sound like a child.”

“I’m not a child any longer, or even a teen,” Sherlock said, angry at having revealed his pain, but no longer able to hide it. “I could have been of use to you. I would have proven to be of more worth than your assistant, in this situation at the very least.”

Mycroft almost couldn’t speak, hearing his own loneliness and loss echoed in his brother’s voice, crushed under the weight of it. “I’ve asked you for your help,” he managed to say thickly. “The Bruce-Partington plans--”

“That you could have found if you’ve bothered to take a walk!” Sherlock hissed. “That were never an issue; you knew they hadn’t made it out of the country. You knew the thief didn’t know what to do with them. Always a child to you. You’ve never trusted me with anything. And a good thing, too,” he sneered, “I was going to give them up. So now you have a reason not to trust me.”

“No,” Mycroft protested. “No, I--” His voice failed him.

“Stay away from Lestrade,” Sherlock said again, the words ugly with an unspoken threat. “He’s my family; do you understand?”

He left before Mycroft could answer.

*********

That he’d betrayed his brother, and not the other way around--with that, Mycroft could perhaps have dealt. After all, their estrangement had been a weight around his heart for years already. But it rankled, it truly did, to know that he had been replaced, and not because Sherlock wanted him unhappy. No, Sherlock hadn’t even wanted him to know.

“My family,” Mycroft whispered, staring up at the clouded sky, feeling the deep bone ache of absence in the new moon.

Three years, he’d said. He wouldn’t have told Gregory immediately. He’d have waited, built trust, been there and been helpful during some case that had taken place during a full moon. He’d have proven himself capable of secrecy, of respect--

That made Mycroft’s hands tighten into fists. One simple word; all that Sherlock had ever wanted. And Mycroft had shown himself unable to give it time and time again.

But that wasn’t the only thing, he remembered, pain flaring in his heart again--oh, did it ever end? Sherlock wanted to be needed. And Mycroft had built an entire life around the same concept, of being needed, while trying not to need anyone.

And when he did need someone, he been unable to act with respect. Mycroft wasn’t accustomed to shame, but that was what he felt, thinking of Sherlock and thinking of Gregory.

How very bitter it was, to think of how easy and simple his joy had been, thinking of Gregory before. Now there was nothing but confusion, pain, and the worst kind of longing--Mycroft had woken up three nights now with Gregory’s name on his lips, lust heating his blood.

It had started slowly, with the old, easily forgotten dreams: running through empty streets, chasing his wolf under a low orange moon. He felt a sickly heat in his face as he remembered how those had changed, how his mind had supplied detail for what he’d witnessed too quickly to remember well. Gregory’s lean body, wet dark eyes--

He pressed his hand against his erection, breathing hard, trying to resist the urge to just let it happen, let himself imagine a touch, his mouth open, pressing his lips to that beautiful face and knowing the human as well as he knew the wolf.

Too much. Mycroft drew in a deep breath; it required too much of him to resist. He carefully worked his trousers loose and touched himself slowly, remembering a favourite dream, one cherished for a week now, in which he held Gregory down, both human, held him down and licked him, their scents mingling in the loveliest, most beguiling fashion. And rubbed against him too, yes, hot and wet, biting his pretty throat and sucking, tasting sweet flesh and the harsh salt of his sweat--

Mycroft came almost silently, the only sound his harsh, gasping breath.

*********

It was impossible.

Mycroft couldn’t focus on his work; couldn’t be bothered with subtlety or diplomacy. He delegated everything he could, sent Anthea to more meetings in two weeks than she’d attended in six months.

If he had to label the emotion driving him as the full moon approached, inexorable and, for the first time in years, terrifying, he would have to call it desperation.

He wanted to see Gregory. Not as a wolf; well, not only as his wolf, but as a human as well. He wanted to see Sherlock. Instead, he stayed far away from them, from anything connected to them. He spent most nights in the back garden, listening to his heart pound and feeling the pull of the moon.

When at last the moon was full, when at last it was rising, Mycroft went out into the garden, having reported to Anthea by phone; she was monitoring a situation in Russia for him. He breathed in the cold night air and felt it, electricity dancing over his skin. Mere minutes.

He resisted.

With every muscle, with every sinew, with every breath, he fought the pull of the moon, held onto his human skin, dug his nails into his palms and ground his teeth against it. He fought the dulling of his mind, the loss of each level of thought and perception, ignored the scents that teased at his nose and dug his toes into the dirt.

It didn’t matter at all. He changed as quickly as he ever had, though it was more painful.

Failure tasted like blood in his mouth as his fur rippled in the breeze; Mycroft whined, low and unhappy, digging fitfully at the earth. His ears flattened. He was thinking of the grey wolf, longing for him, and recognising with an alien intelligence--with an almost human intelligence--that he wasn’t so very clever, that he was much more ruled by his instinct that his beautiful grey wolf. That he was little more than a puppy by comparison.

He whined again and licked at his paw, trying to comfort himself. He wanted to find his wolf--oh, how he wanted to find him, to chase and to forget, to simply enjoy--

Shame, failure, a terrible sense of not being good enough; these translated to pain in Mycroft’s mind. He licked his paw again and limped around the garden a bit, until the desire to find someone, someone trusted, filled him with such frustration that he had to run.

This was not a path he’d taken before, but he knew it, could have found his destination from any point in London. Baker Street was busy, but he could find his way through alleys, slinking through the comfortable shadows.

He knew this scent. Mycroft paused, looking up at a lighted window. He couldn’t get up there. It took him embarrassingly long, he’d remember later, to come up with the simple solution of knocking over the bins and barking. Sherlock would certainly be ready to answer such a call when the moon was full.

And he did, dressing gown pulled tight around him, against the chill. “Lestrade?”

Mycroft slunk out of the shadows, limping again, ears upright and eyes focused on his brother. His brother, who was radiating disbelief.

“Mycroft?”

He remembered, in an odd way, that this one was delicate, that he had to be gentle. He took the last few steps forward, hesitant to leave the deep shadows, but he wanted so very much to greet his brother properly.

Sherlock’s hands were gentle on his head, ruffling the fur, tugging one ear very, very gently in a well-remembered fashion. “Oh, you great big sentimental prat,” he whispered.

*********

tbc


	5. Chapter 5

*********

Sherlock’s flat was a nightmare of overwhelmingly bad odors, of unnatural stinging chemicals and entirely too natural decay. Mycroft whimpered and headed for the strongest concentration of his brother’s scent, the sofa, and flopped onto it to bury his nose in the cushions.

“Since when do you sit on the furniture?” Sherlock asked, already busy putting away a few of the worst offenders. Mycroft made a soft, pleased noise in his throat; he’d think later of how unusual such a thoughtful action was for his brother, and suspect he’d learned it for Gregory. Sherlock opened the windows, too, and had left all the door ajar.

He was again so very gentle as he sat down by Mycroft’s head, tugging on one ear until Mycroft looked up at him. He smelled of tea, of sharp attention blunted by contentment; none of the sour ill-use of drugs or depression. He was inspecting Mycroft’s eyes, ears, and fur with easy familiarity, despite not having done such a thing for nearly two decades.

“You haven’t changed much,” he said finally, and Mycroft cocked his head, tilting to better hear the flavours to the gentle surprise in his brother’s voice. “I thought you’d have gone grey.”

The word was enough to spark association even in his changed mind and Mycroft whined, low and quite suddenly anxious. His ears flicked to the window.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asked, and looked over his shoulder at the window. “You’re not leaving; not immediately, are you?”

A hint of sour disappointment, a sharp note of unhappiness, rooted Mycroft to the spot. He nosed his brother very gently and settled back onto the sofa, though his anxiety remained. Sherlock began to handle him a bit more roughly, smoothing his fur the wrong way and prying at Mycroft’s mouth to look at his teeth. It was terribly, beautifully familiar, and Mycroft growled playfully when his brother began inspecting his claws.

Mycroft’s ears swiveled, then, hearing the shift of weight, and then feet descending from mattress to floor. He looked up at the ceiling, following the steady tread, and acknowledged with a gentle nudge Sherlock’s grip on his ruff. He let his tongue loll lazily as John Watson entered the room, an even stronger scent of tea and warm, sweaty sleepiness preceding him.

“John,” Sherlock greeted him, and there was an expectant note in his voice that made Mycroft’s ears perk up.

“Sorry, couldn’t sleep,” John said through a yawn, and then noticed Mycroft. “Oh. Um.”

Only Sherlock’s hands on him kept Mycroft from tensing to leap. Bright, hard, calculating awareness swept through the human like a shock of lightning, and Mycroft could hear his heart rate and breathing speed up and yet become steadier. He was a hunter. But he smelled like Sherlock, and Sherlock was telegraphing with scent and touch that Mycroft was not to attack, not to threaten, not so much as react.

“Werewolf?” John finally asked, delicately.

Warm approval. Mycroft couldn’t remember his brother feeling something so strongly, so positively, in all his life. “Yes.”

“Well, um. Hello,” John said, nodding to Mycroft, and then he went into the kitchen. Mycroft heard him put the kettle on.

“You’re not at all interested,” Sherlock said skeptically, petting Mycroft’s furry skull again.

“I don’t suppose it’s any of my business,” John said with a shrug. There was still a hint of ozone around him, but Mycroft felt safer, far safer, with the recognition that John was respecting Sherlock and his space, and if Mycroft stayed in that space, then John needn’t be his enemy.

“Oh, go on, deduce,” Sherlock said, grinning suddenly and widely. Mycroft let his ears flatten a bit at that display of teeth, though he knew it to be friendly. He wasn’t accustomed to his brother being friendly. “If you get it, I’ll get the milk.”

Warm current of amusement. Everything in the flat smelled of tea. John was grinning, too, but his teeth were covered, and Mycroft relaxed just a bit. “Is this someone I know?”

“Ridiculous question. Why would I instruct you to deduce if it wasn’t someone you knew?”

“Fine. Right. More to the point, is this someone who would mind if I were to know he or she was a werewolf?”

Mycroft whined softly and didn’t entirely relax when Sherlock started petting him again, tugging at his ears and half-lying on him. “If he or she minded, then why would we have a guest?”

John frowned, and Mycroft whined again, looking between the two. John was uneasy, uncomfortable; it made him sharper and left Mycroft in a more dangerous space. He looked at the window again, longing again to be out in the dark streets, chasing his wolf. It was an easier chase than the one Sherlock was conducting here.

“Lestrade,” John said, and Mycroft almost barked as Sherlock’s fingers bit hard into his fur.

“Reasons,” he demanded, leaning more heavily on Mycroft. It didn’t hurt, and the warmth was comforting, but the tension thrumming in his body made Mycroft itch.

“I can’t imagine any other human being likely to trust you with such a secret, or anyone else you’d keep a secret like that for,” John said wryly. The kettle sounded and John went into the kitchen. Sherlock heaved a sigh and scratched at Mycroft’s ears, petted the fur over his muzzle and lay heavily on his back.

“No, but quite a good guess,” he said finally, a grudging admiration warring with caution in his voice. “I did ask you to deduce it, though; not to attempt psychology.”

“Oh, come off it,” John called back. They continued to bicker and Mycroft continued to lie still under his brother’s body, ignoring the prodding and poking with little difficulty, staring wistfully at the window as their affection washed over him, filling the room to its utmost.

As moonset approached, early in the morning hours, Mycroft nosed at Sherlock and gently shrugged him away. He missed the warmth of his brother’s body immediately; Sherlock’s lips twisted into a moue.

“You’ll come back, won’t you?” he asked, and tugged Mycroft’s ear gently. “Tomorrow?”

He limped home.

*********

Mycroft couldn’t possibly deny his brother’s request. What was one month, really, in the grand scheme of things? This was the first time in years that his brother wanted him to visit, wanted him to stay. They were finally being brothers again, as they had been as children. Reestablishing their relationship.

And yet his heart felt as if it were twisting into a particularly vicious knot, stealing his strength, his clarity of thought, his very breath.

He’d avoided emotional entanglements for years; it was unquestionably the right way to live. It wasn’t as if he had escaped loneliness; no, now he could be with his family and still lonely for those absent! Ridiculous. Absolutely, unbearably ridiculous.

The back garden took a severe beating by umbrella.

“Sir?” Anthea said, watching him carefully. “Is there--is there anything at all I can do?”

There was a plaintiveness to her voice that made Mycroft feel, suddenly, very tired. “No, thank you, Anthea.” He looked at the deep lines he’d scored into the overgrown grass. “It’s simply been a rough month.”

“Perhaps--if you don’t mind me saying so, sir--”

Mycroft stared at her, for a moment unable to comprehend why the colour was rising in her cheeks. “Yes?”

“Perhaps it might be easier if you didn’t, ah, keep to yourself between moons. Some people prefer more... contact.” Anthea stared intently at the ground. She even pushed the grass about with toe, like a child.

Mycroft understood quite suddenly that he had just been given romantic advice.

“Thank you, Anthea, that will be all,” he said, likewise turning his attention to the ground, almost unaware that he was actually speaking over the roar of pure embarrassment in his ears.

“Of course, sir,” she said quickly. “I apologise for--”

“Please just go,” Mycroft begged, and was completely unprepared to look up and see her grin. To be fair, she had no idea he’d seen it, and he would keep it that way.

Moonrise was, at least, a small comfort that night, in that he could forget the nuances to his emotional conundrums and run. He arrived more quickly at Baker Street this time, knowing that if he didn’t, he was likely to hare off in pursuit of his grey wolf.

Sherlock was waiting outside this time, next to the slightly open back door, tucked into his great black coat. Mycroft crept out of the shadows, knowing that his brother would see him almost instantly, but enjoying the chance to perhaps surprise him.

Sure enough, Sherlock’s gaze found him quickly, and he straightened from his posed slouch against the wall. Mycroft padded forward and sat quite still for Sherlock’s hands-y greeting, rubbing at his ears and over his eyes, searching Mycroft’s face with an almost eager expression.

“Welcome back, brother mine,” Sherlock murmured, smiling a bit. He made as if to open the door wider, Mycroft taking a step to follow him, when both of them froze. The lingering, awful mix of scents from cabs and the stinging chemicals of the hospital, more specifically the morgue, on Sherlock’s coat had blocked out the good clean scent of his wolf, now peering out from the shadows, watching them with careful propriety. He’d brushed the bins, not hitting them hard enough to knock them over, but definitely making them aware of his presence. Mycroft felt a wash of warmth for him, which only heightened his excitement.

“Not a good time, Lestrade,” Sherlock snarled, but Mycroft didn’t hear him, running forward to greet his wolf, to knock into him playfully and nip at his fur. The grey wolf shook himself and nosed Mycroft with a little more restraint, before his ears swiveled to Sherlock and his hair rose.

Mycroft felt it, too: a hot, electric-white current of anger, of failure, of sharp iron disgust at the two of them, not separate, but the two of them together. His wolf took a step back, nose working frantically, trying to suss out the reason behind Sherlock’s sudden and ugly emotion, but a moment of pure, human clarity woke in Mycroft’s mind and he felt an answering thrum of white-hot rage:

Sherlock was angry that the grey wolf had come, because he had intended to keep them apart.

Mycroft choked on a whine that wanted to be a growl, bared his teeth and backed away. Sherlock hadn’t wanted him there, hadn’t wanted Mycroft back in his life; he’d simply wanted to insure that he wasn’t in the grey wolf’s life. One month, then two months, then three; he’d be convinced to spend the moon back home again, so very far away; Mycroft’s growl and hackles rose as Sherlock stepped forward now, hands out imperatively, demanding Mycroft’s attention and acquiescence, which he had always given.

His wolf was staring back and forth between the two of them now, whining in anxious query, and Mycroft snapped at Sherlock as he got closer, one darting, crushing bite that just missed his brother’s fingers.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock said sharply, completely unafraid. Mycroft kept his teeth bared, backing away, ready to chance another bite, but his wolf shouldered his way between them, barking sharply at Sherlock. “Oh, you keep out of this!”

It was too much. Mycroft turned and ran, trying to outrun the pain thundering in his head, in his ears, running for his garden, the bright moon leading him on. He jumped the wall and attacked the chair on which his dressing gown had been set out, ripping at it with tooth and claw. It was a long while before his rage started to give, just enough that he was aware of his wolf, crouched near the wall, watching him.

Mycroft growled, but it sounded tired and false to his own ears, and the grey wolf left the shadows, carefully circling closer, pausing to sniff at the chair and the shredded gown. Mycroft trembled, his legs suddenly weak. He whined and lay down abruptly, and curled into himself.

His wolf lay down next to him and nosed him once, gently, before sighing and simply staying there, sharing his warmth and gentle presence, keeping watch under the moon.

*********

tbc


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for sex. Human sex.

*********

He was half-asleep when he changed, warmth and electricity rippling through him, pulling him to full awareness. Warmth remained along his back, and it wasn’t until Gregory moved, shifting away from him, that Mycroft realised that Gregory had remained curled around him until near dawn.

“What was that about?” Gregory asked, his voice gravelly and low, and Mycroft turned to look at him over his shoulder. Gregory was wincing, stretching his shoulders; pale and shadowed in the early grey light.

“My brother is a selfish little brat,” Mycroft said, his own voice raspy and cracked.

Gregory snorted, humour tilting his lips. “I could have told you that.”

They were both sitting now, stretching carefully, working out kinks in muscle and brushing dew from their skin. Mycroft felt a bit muddled, still, looking at how his right leg was tangled with Gregory’s left.

“You came looking for me,” he said finally, unable to hide the wonder in his voice.

Gregory looked up at him from under his lashes. “I promised, didn’t I?”

Human feeling, lust and wonder and affection, warmth and hope and joy, swept over Mycroft in a mix too complicated for a moment so close to his change. He looked down, at his hands, and drew in a shallow breath.

“You didn’t make it easy, though,” Gregory continued. “I suppose I deserved it, though.”

“No, that wasn’t--” Mycroft lost his voice as Gregory shifted and his leg, under Mycroft’s, slid up and along Mycroft’s thigh. He swallowed hard, trying to remember how to breathe, and how not to react to such stimuli, when Gregory shifted again, but deliberately. Sliding his leg under Mycroft’s slowly, watching his own action with dark, half-closed eyes, and the air was thick and warm.

He curled his leg, shifting so as to trap Gregory’s leg with his own, and now they were leaning close, breathing each other’s breath. Mycroft stared at Gregory’s eyelashes, fanned out as he looked down, biting his lip.

“I don’t--” Mycroft almost bit off his tongue as Gregory looked up, met his gaze; such dark, pretty eyes, deep as the night sky. “I’ve never done this.”

“Done what?” Gregory asked, so softly the words were mere puffs of air, and then his hand was on Mycroft’s cheek, stroking back to catch hold of his hair. They kissed, lips meeting warm and parted, a gentle caress.

Mycroft opened his eyes--he didn’t remember closing them. Gregory was watching him, gentleness tempering his heat, and Mycroft licked his lips.

They kissed again, just as gently, and then again, and Mycroft licked Gregory’s teeth, as he had wanted to months before, gasped as Gregory’s tongue tangled with his, as he was pushed gently to lie back on the ground, Gregory’s warm body covering his own.

So very, very good. Mycroft wriggled, shifting around until Gregory’s legs were again tangled with his own, dragged his hands through Gregory’s hair and let his mouth be taken again and again in sweet, hot kisses. He stroked down Gregory’s back, around to his chest, rubbing over his chest and nipples and smiling at the noises Gregory made deep in his throat. Gregory shifted his weight to one hand and cradled Mycroft’s cheek with the other, stroking his thumb over Mycroft’s cheekbone with infinite gentleness.

Their hips were moving, small, leisurely thrusts, sweat easing the slide against each other, heat building deep and lovely in Mycroft’s abdomen, almost too much and nowhere near enough. He let his hands glide down Gregory’s back again, grabbed his arse and pulled him against his own body harder, faster, thrilling when Gregory kissed him hard, his hand suddenly insistent on the back of Mycroft’s skull, holding him tight.

He came hard, crying out loud and wordless as the rosy, true light of the sun spilled into the garden. Gregory thrust into the hollow of his hipbone, gasping in need, and Mycroft stroked up and down his back again, grinning up at the sky, triumph fizzing in his veins as Gregory let go, coming hard with a small, choked, almost sobbing sound. He slumped, very carefully to the side of Mycroft, conscientious even now.

Mycroft thought he might be able to convince him to be a little less so, and stole a quick kiss while Gregory was still sucking in deep breaths.

He looked up, dark eyes dancing with amusement. “You’ve never done what?”

“What?” Mycroft said, his voice just a bit louder than a whisper.

“You’ve never done what?” Gregory repeated patiently, and pressed a kiss to Mycroft’s shoulder, looking smug when Mycroft shivered. “You said. You were saying.”

“Ah,” Mycroft breathed, and stared up at the sky. Gregory shifted next to him, pressing another kiss to his shoulder, and laughing at the resulting shiver. “I’ve never achieved orgasm in a garden.”

“Right.” Gregory was laughing, his face hidden by Mycroft’s shoulder and the grass. “Well, I have. This makes twice.”

“Beds too posh for you?” Mycroft asked, deadpan.

“Well, not when it comes to sleeping. Speaking of...” Gregory yawned, and started to move, to get up. Mycroft rose quickly, refusing to lose contact.

“Stay?” he asked, trying not to appear as vulnerable as he felt. He didn’t know how to say it, now: he’d had sex before, had great sex; he had never had sex with someone for whom he’d...

Gregory looked at him oddly. “Was planning to,” he said slowly. “It’s the least you owe me, after debauching me in the garden.”

“I--!” Mycroft’s indignant reply was cut off as Gregory kissed him again.

*********

Anthea did not appear that morning, although breakfast did, sometime while they slept, along with a texted notification that neither Gregory nor himself were expected at the office that day.

“That’s spooky,” Gregory said, but he didn’t turn down the meal.

Mycroft watched him openly, aware that any attempt of subtlety on his part would be met with skepticism at best at this juncture. Gregory bore up under it well, returning a few of his searching glances, but mostly content to look around his small house as Mycroft had inspected his flat.

“It’s very clean,” he said finally, and Mycroft smiled into his tea.

“Do you know,” Gregory said conversationally, browsing the titles on one of many bookshelves, “that Sherlock deleted John Watson’s contact information from my phone four times? Couldn’t keep it until they’d been flatmates for three months.”

“Selfish, I said,” Mycroft replied. His voice was even and his expression placid, but that wouldn’t stop Gregory, even if the chair and dressing gown had been replaced--well, two dressing gowns had been left out in the garden, he saw. He was suddenly fiercely glad he hadn’t sacked Anthea.

“I’d been wondering why he wouldn’t have told me his brother was a wolf,” Gregory said, as if it were a confession. “He was careful, too. Never any hint that his knowledge of werewolves was anything but research.”

Mycroft tried not to feel anything, not sympathy for his brother or irritation at Gregory, but he remembered too clearly Sherlock’s affection, the comfort of his flat, despite the scents and John’s disturbing awareness of Mycroft.

“I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you two.” Gregory snorted, attention still on the books. “Sherlock couldn’t have taken it well, not being a wolf himself.”

“He didn’t.” Mycroft’s voice was clipped, and Gregory turned at last to look at him. Mycroft held himself with deliberate ease, but the defensiveness was still there, he knew, in the tightness of his jaw, in the way his hands worked, with no umbrella to keep them occupied and still.

“He was kind to me,” Gregory said, almost in a whisper, watching Mycroft just as carefully as he had the other night. “Couldn’t have been for my sake; he barely knew me then.”

“You were interesting,” Mycroft countered.

“Whatever it was, he was kind to me,” Gregory said, and took a step closer to Mycroft. “And that was only because he had known a wolf. It was because of you.”

“A reason behind everything,” Mycroft said with heavy sarcasm.

“Maybe,” Gregory said, and grinned, small and a bit tired. A tiny show of vulnerability that had Mycroft softening, taking a step forward before he could help himself. “It’s a bit hard, though, isn’t it, to make up with your brother and he immediately goes off with a wolf? You don’t even get a chance to try to say sorry.”

“He’s never sorry,” Mycroft said, trying to hold back, but he had lost his will to stand firm and alone. “He considers it a waste of time.“

“So it is,” Gregory said with a shrug. They were standing nearly chest to chest now, warmth teasing between them. “Better to go to the next step, maybe, and get to work repairing what was broken.”

“Don’t be so damnably clever; it suits you far too well,” Mycroft said.

*********

“Now there are two of them?” John asked.

“Tea?” Sherlock requested, looking up from the floor where he was lying on Mycroft. Gregory was sitting on the sofa, watching John with narrowed eyes; he, too, was wary of John’s attention.

“Are there going to be puppies?” John asked, backing into the kitchen. “Oh god, I’m sorry. Forget I said that. I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock sighed. “They’re both male, John. Make the tea.”

Mycroft heaved himself up, knocking Sherlock over and padding to the sofa, initiating a contest of wills as Gregory refused to give up his space. Sherlock was grinning; Mycroft could feel his bright, pleased attention.

“Really, you both ought to be asking permission before just hopping up on the furniture,” Sherlock said, as Mycroft gathered himself and leapt on Gregory, making the sofa shudder and squeak in protest. “If you break it, you will buy me another.”

“That’s Mycroft?!” John yelped from the kitchen, and Sherlock actually laughed aloud. “Shut up, Sherlock! I just asked if your brother was having puppies! Oh god! The other one’s Lestrade, isn’t it? I can’t--I am shutting up now!”

“That would be best,” Sherlock said, and grinned when John glared at him. Mycroft nosed Gregory’s shoulder and shifted to lie on him more comfortably, content to watch his brother play.

“Do either of you want tea?” John asked, looking at the wolves. “I apologise again.”

“Lestrade likes his with lemon,” Sherlock said, watching the two wolves with a narrowed but not unhappy gaze.

“Seriously?”

“He’s very human, for a wolf. Mycroft’s a bit more feral.” Mycroft bared his teeth at his brother, and Sherlock grinned, baring his back.

“No tea for Mycroft, then?”

“Better make it. He hates being left out. Lemon, like Lestrade’s. See if he likes it.”

Mycroft licked Gregory’s ear and then began chewing on it, gently, but with some enthusiasm. Gregory sighed deeply and put his paws over his nose.

“Mycroft, stop it!”

John peered into the sitting room again. “What is he--is he chewing on Lestrade?”

Sherlock shook his head. “He’s being affectionate. Isn’t it horrible?”

“Good god.”

*********

fin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm going to leave this here, with relationships on the mend, and again allow myself the opportunity to revisit the 'verse should I be inspired. I have a fic of doom I'm trying to write for the Mystrade Fan Fest, after all, and I'm pretty sure someone just requested vampire mermaids...? :D
> 
> (No vampire mermaids.)

**Author's Note:**

> IDEK. Apparently I can't leave the mythological creature type prompts alone. Mermaids next, anyone?
> 
> (No mermaids.)
> 
> You know the drill: I have no beta, I have no Brit-picker, I am a terrible person.


End file.
